Classic Poem

By whose skill was the peacock vain,
With curious colours ey'd?
Whence hath his sweeping tail and train
Its finely painted pride?

Such beauteous plumes, and wings so wide,
Tell, whence the ostrich wears;
So big, she other birds beside,
A feather'd beast appears?

Her eggs expos'd she in the dust,
Where laid, leaves to be warm'd:
Thoughtless how soon they may be crush'd;
Or by wild roamers harm'd.

Her labour vain and fearless is,
She's harden'd 'gainst her brood;
For God does from the common bliss
Of wisdom her exclude.

Yet if in danger she but lift
Her neck and wings on high,
She both the horse and rider swift,
Does scornfully defy.